Ignorance is Bliss
by reine Seele
Summary: They don't know what to do with each other, most of the time. They allow their bodies to talk for them, and oftentimes they find that langauge to be far more articulate than the spoken word. OneShot. Completed. M for Language,MF,NC,PWP


**Author's Note: **This is different from my usual style of writing. I suppose you can say that I'm experimenting. Overall, I'm pretty satisfied how this turned out. Ambiguous and shorter than I had expected, but decent enough all the same. Written as a birthday present to ShadowChaos; you know who you are dearie. Hope everyone enjoys, and, as always, please review and let me know what you think.

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She was ignoring him again.

She was ignoring him and he hated it.

How dare she? Didn't she know whom she was disrespecting? _Teach her a lesson_, he thought angrily. Yes, the disobedient wench needed to be taught her place; he wouldn't have her belittling him before the others. As if his reputation hadn't suffered enough.

He didn't deserve it. It wasn't even his fault! It was only because she didn't know how to keep her mouth shut when it mattered most. He had meant to hit her, but he had never meant to hit her so hard.

It was only when he saw the blood leaking out of her broken nose and the way her jaw hung crookedly that he realized that maybe he had gone a little too far. Her wounds had been easily healed, but she still refused to speak with him.

He found her in the rather extensive library. One wouldn't think it, judging by her looks, but she enjoyed reading. She would often steal away from her bed in the middle of the night when she couldn't sleep, find a book, and read until her eyes could no longer stay open.

He never told the others of how he would find her and quietly take her back to her room. She knew, though, and was grateful for his silence, but she never said anything to him about it. She was too proud and stubborn.

Like him.

So much like him.

Maybe that was why they enjoyed each other's company, sometimes more than what should've been permissive. But he was in charge, so of course he never sent her away. Even then he wasn't sure if she would leave, even upon being ordered. She hadn't spoken to him for days, though. He hated this feeling, hated knowing that she held all the strings.

Instead of making his presence known, he chose to stand in the shadows and observe her. He never had any problem admitting that she was beautiful. Any man with half a brain and a functional cock could see that. She rested upon a chaise couch, half dressed and immersed in her literature. He felt a pang in his chest, lust, and had to remind himself that he was here to reprimand her.

She was rude, spiteful, annoying, and completely hell bent on humiliating him in front of his other subordinates. But she was also cunning, seductive, powerful, and frank. He could appreciate her qualities, but he despised her faults.

_Enough_, he decided as she shifted slightly. He stalked over to where she sat and ripped the book from her hands, flinging it to the side like trash.

She said nothing. She didn't even flinch. It was as if she knew that he had been there, waiting and staring, like some hot blooded youngster spying on a young girl undressing.

She simply picked up another book from the pile that sat beside her on the chase lounge. Flipping it open to the middle with a dainty flick of her wrist, she began reading.

He was furious. No, he was beyond that simple mortal emotion. How _dare_ she?! Who the hell did she think she was? _Time to remind her of her position_, he told himself as he clenched his fists. He wouldn't stand for this insubordination.

She was unprepared when her grabbed her by her upper arm and hauled her to her feet. He jerked her to him, oblivious to her exclamations of pain and her own anger at being so rudely disturbed from her solitude.

He didn't give a damn.

"Where do you get off, acting like such a damn _bitch_?" he hissed into her face, noting how she averted her gaze to anywhere else but him. She squirmed violently, twisting in his iron grip and refusing to answer him.

So, she was still intent on pretending that he didn't exist? Very well, he would show her that he meant business. A sharp shove sent her to sprawl across the lounge where she gasped furiously.

"What are you doing?" she demanded in that rich, almost exotic voice of hers. A brief shadow of fear fell upon her face, but lifted almost immediately as she gained control of her emotions.

He had seen it, though, that fleeting shadow. He fed off of it. It excited him, filled him with something, he didn't know what. To know that it was he who put the fear in her eyes………_that _was power.

Reaching, he grabbed her by her ankles and pulled her to him; the blood drained out of her face. "I think you know very well what I'm doing," he said calmly.

She wanted to scream, but didn't. Even if she did, who would help her? It wasn't as if any of the others actually cared what happened between her and the master. They weren't about to risk their lives and intervene. Not even the swordsman.

She closed her eyes and hung onto the edge of the lounge as he flipped her onto her stomach, his body radiating heat and lust. She knew why he was doing this; he hated it when she wouldn't speak to him. It made him feel weak, like he wasn't in control of the situation. This was the only way he knew how to reclaim that control. It was the only method he understood.

Her legs were brutally forced open and he stood between them, hard for her. He was unsure if he was aroused because of her physical beauty or because of the fear that he felt from her. He found that the detail wasn't important at the moment. Perhaps an interesting topic for later reflection, but not now.

His own garments were quickly shed as he hiked up the alluring sheer gown she wore. If she didn't appreciate the way he was treating her, then maybe she would wear more modest things to bed. But _damn_ how he ached for her, even now, as the anger was still at its peak.

She squeaked as he ran a clawed hand up her leg, caressing it in mock gentleness. He was never gentle. Sometimes he was considerate, but never truly gentle. He knew that she didn't like it that way, and that was why he was rough. She didn't like to admit that she enjoyed it as much as he did.

He thrust into her in one swift motion, burying himself to the hilt. She gasped and he groaned. It had been too long, for the both of them. He began to move, not bothering to wait for her comfort to settle in. He was punishing her, wasn't he? Wasn't that what this was?

She cried out in pain; she hadn't even been ready for him and he was already thrusting, madly thrusting. It hurt like hell, but she would not cry for him. If that was what he wanted, if that was his objective, then he would see it unfulfilled.

She cried tears for no one.

Not ever.

He thrust again, hard, and she grit her teeth against the pain. It had never been like this, and she hated every moment of it. For this she would never forgive him, so intent was he on hurting her and finding his own pleasure he wasn't even concerned with her own. _Damn him to the blackest pits of hell,_ she cursed him. He would regret this.

He rocked his body against hers, using her like an experienced whore. His claws ripped at her back and bruised her hips as he held onto her, making sure that she would not try to escape. It had been so long since he had last felt her around him, and he wasn't about to be denied.

He finally began to feel that burning sensation, the one that told him that he was fast approaching release. He moved his hips in a more frenzied fashion, nearly moaning in pleasure. A few more moments and he came, sighing softly as he emptied his seed into her.

She gasped and coughed, hurting from the violent actions that he had bestowed upon her body. He was finished. Good. He would leave and she would go back to her chambers and wash herself, rid herself of his essence. There would be scars on her back if she neglected them for too long, and she made to get up to leave.

She found that to be impossible, however, as he placed his hand on the small of her back, avoiding the scratches and punctures, but keeping her pinned. His other hand found its way her shoulder, where he caressed her skin, either reassuring her or thanking her; she did not know which one and cared for neither.

He was still buried within her, still hard for her, and she gasped as he moved again, feeling his member against that still very sore area. His movements were no longer fast and angry, nor were they violent. He was slow, almost lethargic as he pushed into her, grasping her waist like a lifeline and resting his forehead against her back.

The pain intensified for a few moments as he retouched upon spots that he had made raw just moments before; she cried out, attempting to move away from him. He held onto her, breathing heavily into her ear as he stroked her hair.

He moved again, slowly, deliberately, stroking her with his shaft. She almost cooed as the pain abated. It was still there, present, but not as severe and not as demanding of her attentions. She relaxed, releasing tension in her spine as he rested his weight upon her.

He was still, allowing her what had been earlier denied: the chance to adjust. It had been so long, and her body begged to be allowed to reacquaint itself with the now foreign concept of sex. Before long she sighed, letting him know that she was ready.

This time, when he moved, she did too, and they moved as one. His thrusts weren't gentle. They were considerate. Considerate of her pleasure and mindful of the pain she had just experienced. He continued to stroke her hair and face, exhaling sharply every time she contracted around him. Gods, it had been so long.

She moaned in delight when he performed a particularly arousing maneuver, striking upon a pleasure spot of hers. He was the only one that knew where it was, and it had been him who had discovered it. She panted, reaching beneath her to touch him as he moved within her.

The sensation was an amazing feeling, to the both of them. He hissed as he felt her fingers upon his manhood, and he stopped for a brief moment. He wanted to feel her hands touching him, for who knew when they would next get the chance. She stroked him with her fingertips and made small sounds as he resumed his rhythm.

He released one hand from her waist and moved to touch her where he knew that she desired to be touched; he found it interesting that she didn't enjoy pleasuring herself. She would often watch him do it, but would refuse to show him the same courtesy. It was strange. Odd. Anomalous. But he touched her, because he knew that that was what she wanted.

He did and she cried out, vocal when caught within her pleasure. His pace increased when he recognized the signs of her own oncoming release. Her skin was flushed and he could hear her breathing intensify. He could feel her heart rate increase as he moved his other hand to her breast, squeezing it through the thin material of her gown.

She came suddenly and fiercely, moaning loudly as her muscles compressed around his member. He growled, not quite there, but following closely behind. A few more thrusts and he too joined her. Satisfied, he leaned over her, resting his weight on her back. She smiled a secret smile to herself, appeased.

He was not forgiven, yet, but it was a start. Perhaps he realized this, for he touched her lips with his fingers before pulling out of her and donning his clothing. She rolled onto her back to gaze at him through thick, sooty eyelashes.

She didn't understand him half the time, just as he never understood her. He was just there, a dominating presence in her life, one that she was sure she'd never be rid of. She was something that he looked to for the things that he thought he had lost a long time ago.

They needed each other, each in their own perverse way. Their twisted lives were twisted together, intertwined in and out of loops and bends, ever growing and ever bonding. They were close yet distant at the same time. Together, but always apart. Wanting and needing of each other, but not always willing to relinquish control.

Moments where they both knew what they wanted and how they wanted it were few and far in between, and words were never an option during sex. Neither knew what to say, let alone what might be implicated. It was easier to remain silent.

They don't know what to do with each other, most of the time. They allow their bodies to talk for them, and oftentimes they find that language to be far more articulate than the spoken word. It was about feelings, selfish, egotistical feelings. It was about their own pleasure, how they felt and how they wanted to feel.

"Skeletor," she called out as he made to leave. He stopped and turned, observing her with his eyeless stare. She stared right back, no longer intimidated by his strange and frightful appearance. "I heard that there is to be a caravan arriving at Eternos sometime next week; we might be able to ambush it and use it to our advantage."

Skeletor nodded in agreement and turned back to the door. "I sometimes wonder, Evil-lyn," he said, "whether or not you play these games of yours to put a damper on my mood, or to get what you want yet are afraid of asking for."

"I'm not afraid to ask for what I want."

"Are you?"

She had nothing to say to that, for it was true and false at the same time. She instead picked up her book, which had fallen to ground. When she looked back up, he was gone. A small sigh escaped her lips as she flipped to the page she had left off on.


End file.
